


The Comfort of a Stranger

by gregariousProtagonist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Gift Fic, M/M, Sadstuck, Santabound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:25:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gregariousProtagonist/pseuds/gregariousProtagonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know that you were not what he wanted.  And, if you’re being honest, he’s not what you wanted either. </p><p> You don’t really remember dying, and being dead is not as bad as you expected. It is not until he arrives that you let yourself realize how lonely you were.</p><p>He’s tall and wears a hat and tie.  A typical businessman.  You find yourself drawn to him.  You wonder if it’s his striking blue eyes, how he reminds you of the father you never had, or that he is simply another human being and it has been so long.</p><p>Written for the Santabound gift exchange!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comfort of a Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jabberwocky (Sisterwives)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sisterwives/gifts).



> This was written for the Homestuck Secret Santa/Santabound. Now that it was posted on the tumblr it's okay to post it here! I hope you enjoy!

You know that you were not what he wanted. And, if you’re being honest, he’s not what you wanted either. 

You don’t really remember dying. You remember helping your lil’ bro, remember the feeling of failure when it became clear you would never win, and you remember waking up back in Huston. 

Being dead was not as bad as you expected. The land of Heat and Clockwork was nice, but it felt too much like Dave. You were never really supposed to go with him. Unfortunately, brotherly love is never ironic, not even to the most subtle degree, and you followed. 

Your room is just how you remember, smuppets and all. It’s nice, to be surrounded by familiarity once again. You tell yourself you want for nothing, not even the reassuring presence of Lil’ Cal. It is not until he arrives that you let yourself realize how lonely you were.

He’s tall and wears a hat and tie. A typical businessman. You find yourself drawn to him. You wonder if it’s his striking blue eyes, how he reminds you of the father you never had, or that he is simply another human being and it has been so long.

He tells you that he’s looking for someone, a woman. Though she sounds vaguely familiar, you haven’t seen a blonde in a pink scarf. At least, not in this lifetime. He is disappointed; you can see it in those beautiful blue eyes, but he does not make much of it. Instead, he shrugs and asks you if you would like some cake.

It comes from his wallet fetch modus and you can’t but laugh at how ridiculous the whole thing is. You ask what kind of idiot would captchalogue an entire cake? He does not blush, doesn’t even flinch, and tells you that he simply likes to bake. There is no hint of irony in his words, something you would mock if you weren’t so busy stuffing your face. It’s his turn to laugh, and you thank the horrorterrors that your rad shades hide the majority of your blush. It takes you too long to come up with an awesome comeback; you’re out of practice. But before you need to, he tells you that he understands. After all, he’s dead too.

You aren’t sure how much time has passed, time is different in the dream bubbles. You just know that it is long enough to go from cake, to kisses, to more.

You’re not what he wanted, you know this, but in the dead light of the dead dream nothing matters. Kisses and touches stave off the loneliness. Sometimes, after you’re finished, he strokes your hair and tells you that he loves you. It is as close to happiness as you can get after death and you tell him you love him back. Besides, in the dark he can pretend that your hair is longer and you can pretend that the bottles of shaving cream next to the bed are pistols.

When she comes you’re sure you’re dying again. She sways in to your dream bubble, his eyes light up, and he looks at her in a way he never looked at you. You suspect the swish of her hips and unsteady gait are side effects of the martini in her hand, but it is not your place to say.

He leaves with her, as you knew he would. And you don’t blame him, not really. You would have done the same. But once he is gone, you resent him. Resent him for reminding you of your loneliness, of good food, of companionship, and for taking it all away.

But now when you close your eyes it’s not always pistols and glasses. Sometimes you see a tie, a hat, and blue eyes the crinkle around the edges when he smiles. It’s harder now that he’s gone. Being dead is hard, and he was the only one who understood.


End file.
